Time Snatchers

In memory of Philip Azimov

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I
can’t stop crying.

I’d like to say that it’s the sight of the leaders of the two most powerful nations in the world shaking hands that’s got my faucets going. But to be honest, which I’ll admit is not a quality that most people connect with thieves, it’s my allergies that are making me teary.

It’s always like this for me in the spring. Especially when I’m around daffodils. And there must be ten thousand or more of the nasty yellow things, all prim and pretty for the special state visit of the president of the United States, here to ink the Great Friendship treaty with the president of China. I’m no expert on world politics, but I think the only reason the U.S. and China are becoming best friends is so they can buy each other’s stuff at half price.

I move upwind of the flowers. You’d think that in a city square ten times the size of Yankee Stadium I could find a little elbow room. The only available spot is shoulder to shoulder with some Boy Scouts wearing gray uniforms with yellow neckerchiefs who are probably attending this historic event just to score merit badges. But who am I to talk? The reason for my visit to Beijing isn’t any more noble. In fact, if those shiny-booted soldiers flanking the leaders knew the truth about why I’m here, they’d lead me away in handcuffs.

From my new spot, I’ve got a great view of one of the ten jumbo
screens set up in the square. But as far as seeing the actual, breathing leaders, they’re not much bigger than specks. It might seem silly to travel all this way only to be watching the two great men on TV, but I don’t really mind. After all, they’re not why I came.

I’m much more interested in the building behind them: the Great Hall of the People. Personally, I would have named it the Great
Big
Hall of the People. The place is massive. Each of those tall gray marble pillars must weigh a ton. The odd thing is that it doesn’t fit in with any of the nearby buildings. The Great Hall is boxy and severe, while all the other buildings have sloping roofs and lots of curves. Don’t get me wrong. I like boxy and severe. Considering what I’ve come here to do, the flat roof is a definite bonus.

It’s drizzling, but no one in the huge crowd seems to mind. They’re all snapping pictures like crazy, and I don’t blame them. After all, it’s a truly historic occasion. The start of a golden era in U.S. and China relations isn’t something that happens every day.

The leaders are making their way down the front steps of the Great Hall shaking hands with each other’s second-in-command, third-in-command and fourth-in-command. I wonder what it must be like to be fourth-in-command of one of the strongest nations on earth. I suppose you have to be the patient sort. I mean, a lot of people ahead of you have to quit their jobs in order for you to rule the world.

I scan the crowd, looking for anyone who might cause trouble for me when it’s time to carry out the mission. You can never be too careful in my business. People generally don’t like to have their stuff stolen, so I like to do things under the radar. In this case, that means waiting a bit for the tourist count to go down and the honor guard with the cute but sharp bayonets at the ends of their rifles to go home for tea and dumplings.

Of course, I can’t wait forever. If I’ve learned anything about traveling through time, it’s that it’s tough on the body. After about fifty continuous minutes in the past, time fog sets in: you start feeling dizzy, your thoughts become jumbled, your motor functions start slowing down, and even putting one step in front of the other requires a huge effort. After three hours, your lungs shut down and you literally die from lack of oxygen. The longest I’ve been in the past at one stretch is fifty-seven minutes, and it’s a record I’m not keen on breaking. The only cure for time fog is to go back to the present, which for me means 2061, and stay there until it clears. That could take hours or, for a really bad case, a whole day.

That’s why Uncle has set a thirty-minute time limit on all missions to the past. Trust me, it wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart; it was more because if we all started dropping dead from time fog, he wouldn’t have anyone left to steal for him.

So the rule is if a snatch isn’t completed within a half hour, it’s recorded as a failed mission. On your first failed mission, you only get hauled into Uncle’s office and given a lecture. But if it happens twice in the same month, things can get a lot nastier; how much nastier depends on Uncle’s mood at the time. And three strikes is the worst: that’ll earn you a stint in the Barrens, a desolate and unforgiving wilderness where one month is the longest anyone has survived without going insane or dying.

A giggle catches my attention, and I turn to see a young boy wearing a red T-shirt that says
BEIJING 2060
, with a picture of a panda bear on it. He runs past me into the outstretched arms of his father. I watch, spellbound, as the father catches the boy and lifts him up high in the air before bringing him gently down to earth. The boy’s mother is following him and, after he lands, they’re all laughing and hugging each other.

My heart skips a beat. I wonder what that boy is feeling right now. Safe and secure, I bet. It must be amazing. To know you are loved. To know you are part of a real family.

I don’t have any of that.

No mother. No father. No brothers or sisters. Given up for adoption at the ripe old age of three. Yup. That’s me. Caleb the orphan, time-traveling thief. And seeing as I’m thirteen now, that means I’ve been family-less for ten years … but who’s counting?

Sure, I’ve got a roof over my head and three square meals a day, thanks to Uncle. And there is some companionship, if you can call it that, with the other time thieves, who are all more or less my age. But it would be a real stretch to call us a family.

I can remember a time when things were different. Uncle acted like a real uncle and used to take me and the four others he adopted on field trips to the zoo to see the cloned snow leopards and the talking chimps that swore at you if you got too close. And there were other fun outings to museums, art galleries and concerts—not only in the U.S. but all over the world. Uncle liked to say that we were being “worldschooled,” not homeschooled. He even had a name for us—his five orphantastics.

But a few years ago, everything changed. Uncle became moody and unpredictable. One minute he could be charming, and the next minute, he’d be getting out a pocket knife and reaching for your finger. My theory is that he’s always been crazy but just hid it better when we were young. Abbie, my longtime snatch partner and closest friend ever since we were small—correction,
only
friend since we were small—thinks he had some kind of nervous breakdown. Whatever the cause, it’s really stressful to be around him. So I try to keep my distance. Unfortunately that’s next to impossible, seeing as I live
under his roof and he’s the type of boss who likes to keep close tabs on all of his “time snatchers,” as he calls us.